


Unspoken Words

by elklights



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Burns, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Legolas is a Bad Patient, POV Legolas Greenleaf, Parent Thranduil, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24820777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elklights/pseuds/elklights
Summary: Legolas seeks out Thranduil in the aftermath of the Battle of the Five Armies. Their father-son chat takes an unexpected turn when old and new injuries come into play.
Relationships: Legolas Greenleaf & Thranduil
Comments: 12
Kudos: 109





	Unspoken Words

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is my first foray into writing fanfic since the dark days of '12. Though FMA will always hold a special place in my heart, I thought it was time I moved on and gave LOTR a go. Everyone loves a father-son elf duo, don't they?  
> Sindarin translations are at the end.
> 
> My thanks for reading!  
> ~Elk

The encampment is quiet tonight. Men and elves alike are taking well-earned rest after days on the field, and those few continuing their post-battle activities are hushed, footsteps and murmurs muffled by exhaustion and a dark sky. The mingling stragglers part easily enough as I weave my way between them, past the crumbling ruins of hollowed buildings and beneath narrow passages of pockmarked stone. My guard trail dutifully a few steps behind. Twice I am hailed by members of my company with offers of shared food and fire, but I offer brisk thanks, decline, and keep moving. The winds sing of snow tonight, and an ice-cold draft creeps down my collar, tightening my chest and making my arm ache with a dull throb. I shift my cloak tighter around my shoulders as I walk and long for the warmth of my tent.

Two flights of narrow steps and a passageway later find me at my destination in the central square of Dale's Upper District. The proud silhouette of our command tent rises imposingly from scorched white flagstones in the centre of the courtyard, golden lights strung across its stiff canvas, their glow reflecting dimly off the gilded helmets of the Royal Guard at post nearby. There is no movement visible from within the tent, but I do not need to see any to know my father is inside.

A nod of thanks to my escort has them dispersing to join the rest of the guard. I stride across the courtyard, lift the heavy canvas of the tent flap, catch sight of the Elvenking towering and silent in the shadows, and take pause.

Mithrandir often grumbles about the depth and complexity of elvish riddles, but I have found that unspoken words often hold greater weight than any sleight of tongue. My father's present silence is crushing. It seems my coming here was justified.

This silence, I know, is born from the flames of anger, pride, and dragonfire, but hangs around him in icy stillness. The king wields his reticence with mithril-sharp lethality, but the only battles left to fight here are in the king's mind. The firedrake Smaug has fallen, and orc corpses pile high and stinking on the western plains.

 _Aran nin_ has taught me that bloodshed is the easier aspect of war. The true challenge, he says, presents itself only when there are no more enemies to kill, when our backs are turned, and our swords are sheathed. Standing here, holding the tent flap half-open and observing my silent father, I begin to understand. This is a warrior with everyone and no one to fight, everything and nothing to prove. His physical enemy is dead for now, but _Adar's_ mind has created a new foe of itself. I am not unfamiliar with such struggles ─like father, like son, I suppose─ but knowing the silence is not directed at me does nothing to further my desire to endure it.

My father's back is to me, his silhouette tall and dark and brooding. The Elvenking commands a naturally imposing presence; stood here, wreathed in shadow, he appears magnificent and otherworldly. The air of the command tent hangs heavy with a tension I find myself loathe to enter, let alone break, despite the original intent of my visit – to talk.

I have not seen my father these last two days, with the rush of post-battle duty and injury keeping us independently occupied. Long have my father and I been servants and soldiers to the Realm, but never has the weight of a royal mantle seemed heavier. My father's grim silence suggests I am not the only one so burdened.

I breathe deeply, stifle a cough, and enter.

The tent is spacious, warm, and well-lit, but the furnishings are sparse and utilitarian. The space is dominated by a dark wooden table strewn with maps and documents, coloured ink streaked in webs across the papers. A carven goblet half-full of wine sits at the edge of the table, next to which lay several opened scrolls. The wax of their broken seals is black, so I know these to be the rolling lists of Greenwood's combat dead, missing and wounded. I glance at the top page, and sure enough, my name is printed there in fine red letters.

_* Legolas Thranduilion, Captain, Triage level 2._

The colour of ink and star before my name highlight me as a casualty of note. Royal protocol usually dictates that my father and I be secured after taking injury to preserve the line of succession, and only the extensive clean-up duties following a five-army battle keep me here on the frontline, away from the protection of our northern stronghold. Still, no chances are being taken with our safety; there are enough members of the Royal Guard at post outside to populate Dale twice over. Only three nights ago I battled Gundabad orcs alone on Ravenhill, but now I cannot enter a tent in my own camp without a watchful entourage! I cannot fault the Guard for their diligence, but the situation nevertheless frustrates me.

Sighing, I drop my reports on a thick stack before the king's vacant chair and perch on the table to rearrange my arm; the walk over has stiffened the limb where it lies bound across my chest.

My father turns his head a fraction towards me and breaks his silence at last.

"Legolas. Are you well?"

"I am much recovered, _Adar_ ," I assure. "My wounds were not so bad, and Cínathir works diligently, as always."

My father moves out of the shadows and turns to face me fully. His hair, like mine, hangs unbound and unadorned about his shoulders, streaked silver-gold by the flickering torchlight. His robes this evening are brocade, a dark steel-grey, and they glint with the subtle light of intricately woven mithril when he moves. He raises an eyebrow.

"I know the voracious wrath of fire, _ion nin_ ," he says flatly, "and I have read Cínathir's report. Do not try to fool me."

I shift my perch on the edge of the table. My forearm and hand ache with deep, throbbing pain, the splints on my fingers cumbersome and unwieldy. The residual tightness in my chest is uncomfortable and irritating.

"Still, you are up and about causing mischief," _Adar_ acknowledges, "so there must be some truth, at least, to your claims of good health." His gaze is piercing, and my fingers throb. I shift again.

"It is nothing that would hinder my duties, _Aran nin_."

His gaze does not falter, but I wonder if I glimpse something soften in my father's eyes. I may be imagining things; the flickering light in the tent makes facial expression difficult to read, and the king keeps a notoriously impassive mask.

"Indeed," he replies. "There seems little that would."

I keep quiet. We both know what is expected of us as soldiers and royals, and a minor burn, however painful, does not warrant negligence of responsibility. The king knows this.

"Well, out with it, Captain. Report."

He sits down as I straighten my posture and clear my throat. "Thorin Oakenshield died of his wounds this afternoon." I begin. "His nephews have also passed, so Dáin is expected to succeed him, but we have yet to receive a formal messenger from Erebor."

The king hums indifferently and waves a hand. "It matters little to me which dwarf they place upon their gilded throne. Ask the Dragonslayer to pass along any relevant information; I do not expect the _Naugrim_ to be forthcoming."

I nod once and continue. "Supply lines remain open and we continue to provide the Lakemen with food and medicines. Willow patrol was sent two days ago to assist the Dragonslayer with the fires in Dale's Northern Market Square, and as of last night these are now quelled. The healers reported two elven casualties." I do not add that I am one of the casualties; my king has already read Cínathir's report, and my father will ask of my account later.

"The rest of my company are on field completing clean-up with Captain Ferior's elves. Our wounded and dead have been secured and removed as a priority, so our efforts concentrate now on orc dispatch. Time-constraints have prevented us from searching enemy corpses before burning, but it is doubtful they would carry anything of value. The last of the bodies should be disposed of by late tomorrow."

Something flickers red high on my father's cheek, a product of fatigue and torchlight playing tricks with my vision. I blink and continue.

"Mithrandir believes these orcs were bred in mass for war; their armour is Guldur and Gundabad stamped, but crude and sparser than what we are used to seeing. Based on armour branding and corpse counts, I would estimate that the bulk of the Enemy's force comprised of orcs travelled up from Dol Guldur. Captain Ferior and I have shared concerns on their ease of movement through the Southern Territories, and he will provide a fuller report to the War Council upon our return to the stronghold."

The king hums again, low in his throat. "You would second Mithrandir's thoughts? These orcs were a disposable force, bred to die in quantity?"

"These orcs are more disposable than our own warriors, _Aran nin_. Although a great many orcs were felled during the battle, we have suffered elven losses which will require time to recover from. My archers do not fight frontline, but the company's strength has nevertheless been depleted by a fifth."

My father frowns and taps a finger on the table. "And yet time is exactly what we do not have."

This is an old debate with no agreeable conclusion. We are chronically short of both time and elves to fight the darkness within our forest, and the growing shadow from Dol Guldur means this situation is unlikely to change anytime soon. Even here, in the aftermath of a victorious battle, there are few songs to be sung or drinks to be shared. Each triumph seems only to slow the sickening of our home, these days, and such victories are hollow. When the price to preserve life is life itself, it becomes a price too steep to pay. Yet what are we to do? The dead pile up outside, but I find myself mourning for those still living.

I am weary, and this not the place for such impasses. I resist the un-princely urge to rub a hand over my face. "Mithrandir hopes we might see a decrease in activity from Dol Guldur over the next few years whilst the Enemy recovers its strength."

My father's cheek flickers again, his left eye clouding briefly white, and I realise this illusion is not caused by any torchlight, though I wish it were. I have not seen him slip control in half an Age. His emotions have been mithril-clad since my mother passed.

"Mithrandir _hopes_ , does he? How very thoughtful of him. Those of us with the privilege of bearing a ring of power might while away the hours on such frivolous matters, I suppose. What does he _hope_ we will do when the Enemy _has_ recovered their strength? Watch our sons and daughters fall bloody to the forest floor?"

My father is not especially fond of Mithrandir. In truth, presently, neither am I. My arm burns with a bone-deep ache, my father's illusions are slipping under emotional strain, and my own thoughts run like a river. My waiting cot is about all I hold fondness for right now. Alas, life goes on.

"We have bought ourselves breathing room, at least," I say. "We will endure." The House of Oropher holds no high kingship, no ring of power, few magics. Our greatest strength has always been our endurance.

"We will endure."

A brief silence hangs in the air, lingering with echoes of the Elvenking's sharp reticence from earlier. The Firedrake is fallen, the orcs are dead; our battles here are of the mind. I know this. The House of Oropher is not gifted with foresight, and dwelling on costs and sacrifices not yet come to pass is unproductive, and I know this, but…

"Elves will fall."

"Our kingdom will not," my father says. He does not say _you will not_ ; some promises are not meant to be spoken.

I meet his pale eyes and find none of the same fear that would take the heart of me, though I saw flashes of it earlier. The Elvenking stands tall, and his gaze is inscrutable. His glamour holds firm. I resolve myself; it is not productive to fall prey to dark thoughts and what-ifs. That is not why I came.

I hold his gaze. "Our kingdom will not."

"Good." He turns and reaches for the goblet. The jewels on his fingers gleam in the torchlight. "Now, tell me the real reason for your sneaking here in the small hours, when you should be with the healers, preferably asleep."

I reach out with my good arm to tap the stack of reports in front of him, flashing a smile. My father raises an eyebrow.

"Try again," he says, taking a sip of wine.

"I didn't sneak," I protest. It is important to clarify this. "Captain Ferior and the Guard know I am here."

"Do they now?" asks my father, his tone mild. He idly swirls the liquid in his cup. "And what of Cínathir? I suspect he was thrilled with the proposition of your late-night strolls. How many shifts have you pulled back-to-back now? Three? Four? When was the last time you slept?"

I shift my weight against the table and try to find a suitable response that isn't an outright lie.

"Legolas, you have not rested for days. The battle is over. You can breathe. We have bought ourselves room for that, at least."

My father is extraordinarily and frustratingly good at turning my own words against me. Four thousand years of council meetings will do that to an elf, I suppose. I inhale deeply and stifle a cough.

"I breathe."

My father rolls his eyes. " _Ai, ion nin_ , now you are just being deliberately obstructive!" There is little heat in his words. "I will save you your explanations," he continues. "You came here to speak with me. I will happily oblige; stories of your illicit night-time wanderings might even, ah… slip my mind, when I next see Cínathir. But first, you must agree to rest."

There are duties I must see to before I retire. I have elves to instruct, reports to read and submit. The King knows this. Why else would he still be in the command tent, himself, if not to work? Kingdoms and armies do not run themselves.

" _Aran nin_ , I─"

"Until noon tomorrow," he cuts me off. "Or rather, noon today. You can cope with that, I assume?"

"My company─"

"Will manage quite nicely without you."

"I don't─"

"Meludir!" he calls. The tent flap opens.

" _Aran nin_?"

"Captain Legolas will be otherwise engaged until noon. Inform Eluchon he has charge of Fourth Company until that time."

"Very good, _Aran nin_." The tent flap closes.

I grit my teeth and flex my fingers beneath their splints. Phantom fire burns white-hot through my right hand, and I embrace its grounding presence. Having a king for a father can be infuriating at the best of times.

"So, you wished to talk?" my father asks, leaning back in his chair to take a sip of wine.

Now that we are here, I am not sure what to say. I eye his cup whilst I collect my thoughts, and he laughs.

"No."

"I… what?" My father can be difficult, but he is never this obstructive.

"It does not always mix well. You know this, Legolas."

"Mix with what? I have not taken anything."

He sighs and leans forward to tap the shoulder of my bound arm. His touch is surprisingly gentle. "That is precisely my concern."

I do not understand. My father and I often talk over Dorwinion, and the king has just forcibly released me from my duties. I can hardly get drunk on the job when there is no job to be done.

"I suspect the healers will be keen to force something on you by now. Woe betide me if I have fed you wine, and they cannot give you the medicines they desire."

 _Ah._ I rub my hand over my face. My mind is indeed running like a river if I cannot follow my father's inferences. He does not typically concern himself with such minor nuances as subtlety.

He eyes me over his cup and gestures to a chair on the other side of the tent. "Bring it over, Legolas, and sit down before you fall. And do try not to break your other arm in the process, hmm?"

"I'm not going to fall," I say, fetching the chair to sit. I came to ask after my father's wellbeing; how has this conversation become so side-tracked already? We have barely begun.

My father settles back in his chair expectantly, and I attempt once more to collect my thoughts.

The Elvenking is unashamedly prideful and guards his emotions as a dragon would his hoard, but I know my father and his silence is telling, as are his slipping illusions. His _fae_ , I know, runs sharp with anger: at the dwarves for their stubbornness and greed, at the darkness encroaching on our home, at the elves he sends to the forest to die. Fear interweaves with relief in his silence, battle-lust with world-weariness. What can I say? We came only to reclaim my mother's gems. How did it come to this?

Though I came to speak, I find myself silent.

"Captain Ferior said you fought well," my father says when it becomes clear I will not speak. "I am, of course, immeasurably proud. I also find myself mildly concerned, considering the good Captain was fighting near Ravenhill for the duration of the battle, whilst your archers were stationed across the field in Dale. No, do not explain, I trust your command. What I do not trust are your tendencies toward self-preservation."

I have no counter argument for this, and my father does not ask for one. I take risks, as is my duty. I survive to lead, as is my duty. First and foremost, I am a warrior, not a prince, but I know my roles, and I weigh the stakes. I will not change, and he does not ask me to, as Oropher did not ask him. We are similar in that regard.

He leans forward and lifts my chin with a finger. I meet his piercing gaze. "Be careful, Legolas," he says. "That is all I ask."

He leans back into his chair, and shadows dance forward over his brow to veil the left side of his face. One eye gleams white in the torchlight, his expression unreadable. I wonder how much of his father he sees in his son, if the steps of his ghosts echo those of the living. _Elbereth Star-Kindler raised our stars_ , my mother used to sing, _and all stars fall with the night_.

"I am okay, _Adar_ ," I say. My arm and chest ache, and weariness lays heavy on my mind. I do not promise anything.

"I think not," my father says, "but you will be, after you get some rest. Come." He sets down his wine and rises to offer me a hand. I smile and swipe his cup for a quick drink out of habit before taking his hand to stand. He rolls his eyes but fastens his outer robe and leads me from the tent anyway.

The clouds have thinned in the time we have been speaking. Eärendil is now visible to the west, tilted high above Erebor's peak as a crowning gem for the fine net of stars adorning the velvet sky. Ithil waxes and will soon be full again. The camp is hushed.

The wind still flies with a biting chill, creeping down my collar with icy tendrils. I breathe semi-deeply and attempt to ignore the tightening of my chest. The ache in my fingers is reliably present. I shift my cloak and attempt to ignore that too.

My father wastes no time in striding across the courtyard, and I fall into step next to him as two of his guard fall into place behind. Heavy crimson silk swirls about his legs as he moves, and the white jewel on his brow gleams bright with reflected starlight. The Elvenking requires no armour or mount to command an imposing presence, and there is no need this time to weave through soldiers or sleeping Lakemen as we make our way through the city; most everyone parts ways before us. It does not take us long to reach the healer's tents, sitting long and low against an intact section of the old town wall.

There is more movement towards this end of the camp, although the atmosphere is still hushed. Elves come and go intermittently, bringing supplies and comfort to those wounded inside, nodding to us as they pass. The last of the living will likely have been recovered today, and the majority of the men and wounded sleep. There are few cries from inside, and the lamps inside the surgeon's tent darken and cool.

I follow my father into the closest tent, blinking as I enter to adjust my eyes to the sudden change in brightness. Hundreds of hanging lamps are strung across the supporting posts, burning bright-white pale above three long rows of pallets. I sigh as pleasant warmth envelopes me, and smile as I catch the eye of one of my archers as his leg is tended to nearby.

I have barely glanced away ─we have barely entered the tent!─ when Cínathir catches sight of us from across the hall. He holds unwavering eye contact with me as he makes his way over, and my smile drops, slightly.

" _Aran nin_ ," Cínathir says as he reaches us, inclining his head towards my father. "A pleasure. You are uninjured?"

"I am well, Cínathir," replies my father, placing one hand on the small of my back to push me forward. "I have come to return something I believe you misplaced."

Cínathir turns to me. "You are too kind, _Aran nin_ ," he says blandly. "I've been wondering where this one disappeared to." He takes my good arm and half drags me to an empty pallet set away from the others in the corner of the tent. My father follows at a sedate pace, stopping to exchange brief words with a few injured elves on the way, seemingly unconcerned with the prospect of my imminent sufferings. I have the distinct impression he has led me into a trap and left me to fend for myself. I am faintly unimpressed, though in hindsight, not all that surprised. _Adar_ can be like that, sometimes.

"You're not in armour, at least." Cínathir manages to sound both exasperated and relieved. "Have you drunk?"

I shake my head. "A sip, nothing more."

"Small mercies," he says. "Stay." He leaves, and I flex my fingers and remove my cloak but otherwise do not move.

He returns soon enough, carrying linen, herbs, and a cup of something which smells suspiciously like valerian. He sets most of it down on a small table nearby and hands me the cup. I eye it warily; valerian tastes absolutely foul. A part of me wishes I had drunk more of my father's wine. Perhaps I could have gotten tipsy enough to mask the pain without medicine.

"Hello, Cínathir," I say.

"Drink up," he replies.

Two thousand years of friendship apparently still counts for something, because he offers me a cup of water to wash the medicine down. I accept it gratefully.

"It is very thoughtful of _Ernil nin_ to grace the healing tents with his presence," Cínathir says in a conversational tone as I set the cup down. "I was beginning to feel redundant, you know. The Royal Healer, without any royals to heal… I feared I might have to come and injure you myself."

"It's been two days, Cínathir."

"And yet here I thought I told you to come back after one. Sling and tunic off, please."

He leaves me to extract myself from the garments as he crushes the herbs he brought over. They smell sweet, but with an underlying bitterness, and I hope I do not have to eat them.

"I have heard that age does terrible things to mortal memory," I say, "but it is sad indeed to see such mental regression in one so young as you."

"We are fortunate I am not mortal, then," he says. "If my memories are beginning to slip, then I fear for the state your mind, _old man_."

Cínathir is only one year younger than I, but, as a show of my superior maturity, I let this comment slide. I am also slightly preoccupied with trying to unlace the sleeve of my tunic one-handed. When it is mostly off, he comes to kneel in front of me.

"Keep still," he says. "Put your arm up here, straight. Good. Let me do the work."

My arm throbs despite the valerian, and I let him work the tunic over my hand and head. By the time it is off, I am left in only my leggings, undershirt, and the linen strips binding my arm.

"Lean forward," instructs Cínathir, and I do. "Breathe deeply." He listens to my chest for a few moments, then sits back on his heels and nods. "Headaches or dizziness?"

"None."

"You'll be just fine," he says, as if I needed comfort having taken mortal injury.

"I'm perfectly happy living in the halls of Northern Greenwood," I tell him, slightly miffed. "You'll find I have little inclination to visit those of Mandos at this time."

"At any time, I should think," Cínathir replies. I shiver, and he touches lightly over the wrist of my good arm, snags a blanket from the empty pallet next to me, and dumps it on my lap.

"You're still losing heat from that burn," he says. "Put this on."

I drape the blanket over my shoulders, my right arm still outstretched. It is scratchy and smells faintly of damp and medicinal herbs, but it does the job.

"Only you, _mellon nin_ , could emerge from a five-army battle unscathed," Cínathir continues conversationally as he cleans his hands, "only to take injury putting out a market fire _after_ the dragon was felled. I wonder if you do not intentionally seek to generate work for me, at times."

"You like it," I tell him. "It keeps you on your toes." He prods my upper arm slightly harder than perhaps necessary, and I scowl. "You think we should have left the city to burn with our encampment inside?"

"That is not what I meant, Legolas, and you well know it."

I have already taken this lecture from my father and do not intend to hear it a second time from Cínathir. When I do not reply, he continues his ministrations in silence, unwinding the linen down my arm with nimble fingers. I turn my attentions elsewhere.

The field station is notably calmer than when I was here last, though I was not paying particularly close attention to my surroundings at that time. The smell of your own burnt flesh can be somewhat preoccupying, I have found, and I was asleep for much of the original treatment before I was given leave to return to the field. There was hardly time to examine the carven detail of the support posts. The pallets are all still filled, but there is a definite order here that was lacking in the initial triage of immediate post-battle chaos. Another few days and most major injuries will have stabilised enough for us to break camp and return to the stronghold. I close my eyes. Somehow two days seems both a very great and very little time.

 _It is not so bad_ , I tell myself, and then Cínathir reaches the inside of my forearm and the whole limb _burns_. I hiss and try to pull away, but his grip, though mindful, is firm and unrelenting.

"Keep still," he says. "I know Legolas, but please. The valerian will kick in soon."

I glare and grit my teeth but do not move until he has finished, though he seems to take an Age. My arm up to the elbow feels as if my very bones are aflame, my veins running thick with liquid fire. Every brush of fingers and cloth brings a new flare of pain. It did not hurt nearly so much when I took the injury. Perhaps I should have left Bard and his Northern Market Square to burn. If this is how valerian draught masks the hurt (not at all?), I am immeasurably glad I did not rely on my father's wine for its analgesic properties.

A tap on my cheek has me opening eyes I did not realise I had closed. Cínathir is crouched in front of me, gaze searching. I grunt to acknowledge his presence, and he gets up to fetch something from the table.

"Still here, Legolas?" my father asks from where he leans against a post nearby. His hair glows white under the harsh light. I did not hear him come over.

I grunt again.

"I know, _ion nin_ ," he says. "I know." I think of glamours flickering over his cheeks in the torchlight of the command tent and I know he knows. If this is how mortal flame burns, I struggle to imagine the agonies of dragonfire.

Cínathir returns with a bowl of water and his herb paste. "I would wait a moment," he says, "for the medicine to kick in." I unclench my jaw, refrain from making an unnecessarily scathing remark about both the poor taste and effectiveness of his medicines, and wait.

By the time Cínathir has rolled the sleeves of his mint green healer's robes, the fire in my arm has receded somewhat. I am left with lingering weariness and a bone-deep ache through my fingers. Cínathir crouches in front of me again, and I close my eyes.

Cínathir takes my arm again, but this time his touch feels distant and my limb detached. He sings in a low voice as he works, weaving Songs of cooling and healing into herbs and flesh. Time stretches and warps, taut as a drawn bow and fluid as the Forest River. I catch some familiar snippets of melody; Cínathir has a distinctive composition style, and we know each other well. Most I do not recognise and do not have the energy to try to.

By the time he has re-splinted my fingers and stopped singing, my awareness has shifted back into a more accessible place, though I now long for nothing more than my cot and the dream-paths. Cínathir manhandles me into my tunic and sling and drapes the blanket back over my shoulders.

"Keep it," he says. "You can return it to me when you come back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" I ask. I can think of little worse than going through all this again in less than a day.

"Don't whine, Legolas, it is unbecoming," my father says. He turns to Cínathir. "He will be with you at noon."

My father takes my good elbow as I rise. The act of standing helps me regain some of my equilibrium and makes me feel more like myself, but he keeps a firm hold of my elbow as he guides me from the tent, nonetheless. I do not protest.

"Keep that arm elevated!" calls Cínathir as we leave.

My father and I walk side-by-side in silence through the camp. We are almost at my tent when I remember the grievance I was supposed to hold with him.

"You said you would not tell Cínathir," I protest. "You just fed me right to him!"

"I did not," says my father. "I told him nothing of your late-night wanderings or your pulling triple shifts. How was I to know he would be on duty at this time?"

"He's the Head of Halls, _Adar_ , the Royal Healer! Where else was he going to be?"

"You tell me. I forced you nowhere."

I groan. "I will never escape him now."

"Good."

" _Adar_!"

We reach my tent and stop outside. His hand rests warm and firm on my shoulder.

"Get some rest, Legolas," he commands. "I won't hear of any sneaking about until midday. Return to Cínathir at noon, then report back to duty. Eluchon and Ferior will have fun burning orc corpses without you, I am sure."

He nods to the guard and leaves with a flash of silver-spun hair and silver-spun robes.

It is only much later, as I gaze through the shadows of my canvas ceiling and step onto the dream-paths, that I realise I never spoke to my father about his _fae_ or slipping illusions.

* * *

My father and his guard are already mounted when I arrive at the city gates on the third dawn after our late-night talk. They wait in the courtyard as the sky lightens behind them, pale beams filtering through my father's hair so it glows gold-white about his shoulders. He is crowned, armoured, and armed, in silver plate that gleams amidst the sun and snow. I take my reins from a waiting attendant and swing up onto my horse one-handed, turning to face the bridge. Erebor is visible through the arch of the city gate, its distinctive silhouette backlit by the rising sun. I can hear faint thrush-song above the murmuring of elves and shifting of horses. It is a pleasant sound.

I nod to my father as I come into line. " _Aran nin_ ," I say.

He nods back. "Captain."

I wait for him to give the order to move out, but it does not come. I am about to ask after the delay when the Dragonslayer walks into the courtyard. He stops just short of my father's elk.

"My lord Thranduil," he says. "I bring you a gift." My father dismounts.

"Please accept this a gesture," Bard says, "of hope and continued goodwill between our peoples." He brings out a box from inside his coat and offers it to my father, who accepts with both hands and opens the lid.

"The emeralds of Girion," my father murmurs, lifting them from their case. "Treasures of your ancestry."

"My ancestors are long gone," says Bard. "They will not miss them. These are not the gems you shed blood for, I know, but I offer them to you nonetheless."

My father turns the necklace in his hand and five hundred strung emeralds burst with colour as they catch the light. "I accept your generous gift, Dragonslayer," he says gravely, placing the necklace back in its case and handing it to a guard. He holds eye contact with Bard for another moment, and I cannot tell if he is searching for something missing or acknowledging something found. After a length, he inclines his head, turns with a swirl of scarlet velvet, and springs back onto his elk. He lifts a gauntleted hand, and the host stands to attention behind him.

My father's silhouette is tall and broad, his back to the sun, his face shadowed. He does not speak for many leagues, but he looks at me, and his eyes are silver-clear with fierce passion and firm resolve.

I smile; unspoken words hold weight indeed. We are going home.

**Author's Note:**

> Sindarin translations:
> 
> Aran nin = my King
> 
> Ernil nin = my Prince
> 
> Adar = Father
> 
> Ion = Son
> 
> Mellon = friend (of course)
> 
> Naugrim = derogatory term for dwarves, literally translates to 'stunted people'. Don't say Thranduil isn't racist
> 
> Fae = soul/spirit (More commonly referred to as fëa in Quenya, but Thranduil originates from Doriath where Quenya was banned by King Thingol, so I assume he uses the Sindarin term instead)
> 
> Elbereth = the Sindarin name of the Vala Varda. She raised the stars over Middle Earth so the elves like her a lot
> 
> Eärendil = The elves' brightest and most beloved star. He's actually Elrond's dad, floating around in the sky on his ship with a special stolen gem. Elrond's mum is a bird. Family reunions are weird.
> 
> Ithil = the moon
> 
> Mandos = the Sindarin name of the Vala Námo. He looks after the souls of slain elves and his official job title is Doomsman of the Valar which is pretty metal


End file.
